Libra Meets Leo
by owlcroft
Summary: How much is excusable in the name of 'survival?


The rights to some of these characters belong to others; no copyright infringement is intended by me.

A/N: This story first appeared in the second STAR for Brian 'zine.

LIBRA MEETS LEO

by

Owlcroft

Judge Hardcastle hung up the phone and leaned back in his chair, brow furrowed and lips pursed. He sat in thought for few moments, then shrugged, rose, and went looking for McCormick. He found him standing motionless in the middle of the front lawn, arms akimbo, staring at the trees to the north of the property.

"Thought you were gonna patch the fountain." The judge joined him.

McCormick glanced at him, then back to the trees. "Look at those gaps." He waved a hand. "Another two down in the last storm. We need to plant more to fill in the spaces. Do you know how long it takes for a eucalyptus to reach ten feet?"

"No, and neither do you. Listen up. I just got a call from a guy I know in the Fish and Game Department." Hardcastle paused to rub his nose thoughtfully. "Seems there's a rancher up towards Branson that's attracted their attention. You know what a canned hunt is?"

Mark frowned and shook his head. "Not something from the Campbell company, I'm guessing."

"Nope." The judge turned back toward the house and motioned for McCormick to follow. "A canned hunt is where an animal is set loose in a confined area for somebody to kill. Usually it's a trophy animal of some kind, like a bear or a tiger. Usually something that's dangerous to face in _natural_circumstances."

"That sounds real sportsman-like. Is it legal?"

"In most states. But here in California, it's illegal to hunt _exotic_ animals like that." Hardcastle snorted. "_Hunt_. Just another word for slaughter in cases like that. Anyway," he waved a hand, "Fish and Game's been aware for a while that somebody in that area's got a hunt sideline going. They've got reason to think this rancher's involved as a buyer and we're gonna go check it out." He stooped to look at the crack in the fountain. "How'd ya like to go back to college?"

Mark flinched, opened his mouth to ask how the judge had found out, then realized it was a rhetorical question.

"Looks like that'll keep 'til we get back." The judge straightened up from inspecting the fountain and looked at his watch. "I figure you're studying early California history and need to check out the old mission up there for a term paper or something. We could be up there by about four o'clock. Stay a few days, ask some questions, breath some clean air for a change."

McCormick breathed a tiny sigh of relief.

Hardcastle paced around the fountain toward the main house. "See, this rancher – guy's name is Merritt, Dale Merritt – owns most of the land around the mission, but there's an easement to it most folks use that gives us an excuse to talk to him right off. Make sense so far?"

"Yeah, so far. But what exactly are we trying to find out, Judge?" Mark opened the front door for the older man and followed him inside.

"Well, there's always been a black market trade in trophy animals, you know that, right?" When Mark shrugged then nodded half-heartedly, he went on. "But lately, some of the smaller zoos and theme parks and places like that have been finding a way to make a little money by selling off their older animals to people who want to look like big-game hunters without the bother of travelling and stalking and actually being in danger."

McCormick dropped into his chair at the end of the desk. "You know, that's really pathetic."

"Oh, it's worse than you think, kiddo." The judge sat and leaned back in his chair. "Most of these animals aren't just old. They're sick or crippled or dying . . . which, of course, means they're not much of an attraction any more. So, the only way for them to make money for their owners is to be trucked up a box canyon, let loose, doped up if they're not sick enough for it to be safe and then shot. Hopefully, by someone with at least the ability to kill with one shot." Hardcastle paused and shook his head. "But, most often, probably not."

Mark grimaced. "That's horrible. It's disgusting."

"Yes, it is. _And_it's illegal. At least, it is for _exotic_animals . . . lions, tigers, zebras --"

"_Zebras_?" McCormick stared. "People want to kill _zebras_?"

"Oh, yeah. Water buffalo, rhinos, African antelopes, Russian boars, leopards, anything that makes a good trophy on the wall." Hardcastle straightened up. "So, you go pack now. Warm weather, about three days."

ooooo

"Will ya put the damn paper down and pay attention," snapped Hardcastle. He tossed a quick scowl toward his passenger. "Come on, this is serious!"

"Just a minute, Judge." McCormick rustled the newspaper and read importantly, "'A time for introspection and self-evaluation. Be open to meeting new friends. Do not let others make your decisions for you.' That's mine; now I'll read yours. What are you again, Aquarius? Here. 'Be mindful of the emotions of others during this period of uncertainty --"

"Do you _have_to read that crap?" growled the judge.

"Wait, wait," Mark tried to stop snickering long enough to continue reading. "It says 'your normal charitable impulses are stifled by confusion, but an unexpected romance will --'" He gave in, laughed uproariously and tossed the paper onto the floor of the truck. "Heee, heee. Oh, I love horoscopes!"

The judge took the turn off onto Route 261 and cranked down his window a little more. "Great. That's just swell. Maybe next week we can go to a séance or investigate a haunted house or something." Suddenly, his voice rose to a near-shout, "Can we please _get serious_ about this!"

"Yeah, yeah." McCormick leaned his head onto the seat back, still grinning. "Tell me what I need to know, but be mindful of my emotions here."

"Rrrrr," said the judge. He conscientiously loosened his clenched grip on the steering wheel and took a deep breath. "Okay. You're a college student majoring in history with an emphasis on early California and the mission up here is gonna be the basis of one of your term papers, right? I'm a friend who was coming up this way to check out hunting opportunities and offered to give you a ride up and back." He threw a glance to the side. "You getting all this?"

"Yup. And we're gonna stop at this guy's ranch and tell him we'll be using the easement to the mission and that'll give you a chance to scope him out about hunting around here." Mark grimaced. "Do people really still hunt up here? Don't they have grocery stores?"

"Yeah, sure. But a lot of folks still hunt because the cost of a shell or a bullet is a lot less than $400 for a side of beef. Or because what they're after is a pest or a predator, like boars or mountain lions." Hardcastle shifted a little in his seat. "And there are some people who just like to get out in the open air and hike a little and then kill something."

McCormick looked at him curiously. "You used to hunt when you were a kid. You told me you and your dad would go out and shoot deer."

"Well, yeah. But that was to put food on the table, not for fun. And it really wasn't fun, it was more like work. We never thought of it as . . . I dunno, _entertainment_. It was a chore we did every year."

Mark sat in silence, looking pensive.

"So," the judge asked suddenly, "what college do you go to and who's your history professor there?"

"What is this, a pop quiz?" complained McCormick.

"Yes," said Hardcastle placidly. "Somebody could ask ya this stuff and you better have your story straight before then. So, what mission are we going to visit and what's the main point of your term paper?"

ooooo

The truck bumped and crunched down a dirt road, throwing a dust trail and jouncing its passengers unmercifully.

"If you don't watch out for those potholes --" Mark's complaint was interrupted by another sudden drop. "Ouch! Judge, I'm not gonna be responsible for replacing your shocks . . . oof!"

"Hey! Look there!" Hardcastle brought the truck to a stop and pointed out his window. "See 'em?"

McCormick shaded his eyes and peered at the brush lining the road. "Two cows?"

"Steers. And we haven't seen a cattle guard, so they've broken through the fence somewhere." Hardcastle clapped his hands in satisfaction and put the truck in gear again. "That's an even better reason to stop by Merritt's place. Let him know he's got a hole in his fence line."

Mark grabbed for the dashboard and held on tightly. "So, what's the difference – umph – between a cow and a steer?"

"Steers are males that have been castrated."

"Yuck," said McCormick succinctly.

"It helps 'em bulk up and keeps 'em from fighting the bull. These are meat cattle, kiddo. See? Brown and white? They're Herefords, maybe with a little Charolais mixed in. When you buy steaks at the store, or hamburgers for that matter, this is where it comes from."

"Sounds like steers don't have much of a life." Mark winced as the bottom of the truck clanged against the road. "How much further is it?"

"Should be right around here somewhere. Look for a – there!" Judge Hardcastle took one hand from the steering wheel he was wrestling and pointed straight ahead.

The road led straight into a gravel clearing surrounded by a variety of buildings, the largest of which was obviously a residence. A small wrought-iron archway with "Merritt Ranch" in fancy scrollwork on it led through a white picket fence, which enclosed a tiny yard with geraniums and a birdbath.

Both men got out of the truck, stretched and approached the gate in the fence, Mark in the lead. As he reached for the gate latch, a man stepped out of the house onto a shaded porch, shotgun in hand.

"Hold it. Don't move," he said sternly.

McCormick froze, hand extended toward the latch. "Okay, I won't."

"Ah, listen, we're just up here for --" Hardcastle's explanation was interrupted by the shotgun blast.

Both men jumped, then noticed the headless snake writhing and coiling on the gravel walk just on the other side of the gate from McCormick.

"Holy Mother of God," he whispered.

"Saw it from the window when you pulled up," explained the man with the shotgun. "Probably been sleeping under the bushes all day, but it's cooling down now and they'll start to come out. You two gotta watch where you step, 'specially this time of day." He broke the shotgun open, set it across a small table on the porch, and came down the steps toward the ceaselessly spasming body. Picking up a rake from the side of the yard, he scooped the body onto the tines and flung it into the road behind the truck. "No use burying it."

"Nope." Hardcastle pushed his Yankee cap up and back. "It'll just dig itself up after a while. Name's Hardcastle, Milt Hardcastle." He extended his right hand toward the rancher and pointed his left thumb at Mark. "This is Mark McCormick, friend of mine, and I think we both owe you a big thank-you."

"Oh, yes, definitely," said McCormick sincerely. "_Thank_you." He also put out a hand to shake. "That _is_a rattlesnake, isn't it?" He gestured at the copper and brown loops, frantically coiling and uncoiling. "Why didn't we hear it rattle?"

"Dale Merritt." The rancher opened the gate and motioned for the men to enter. "It wasn't feeling threatened or ready to strike. But if you'd stepped on it, it would've got you."

"Well, listen, Mr. Merritt," the judge held up a hand, "we're not gonna impose on you. Just stopped by to let ya know there are a couple of steers out by the road. Blue ear tags, about a half-mile south of here."

"Dammit. It's that cow again." Merritt wiped his hand across his forehead. "There's this one damn cow that breaks through barbed wire like it was thread. Then the whole herd follows her and scatters all over creation." He raised his voice in a shout. "Gene! Harvey! Cattle out again!"

"Look, we're gonna be in the way here." The judge pulled McCormick back toward the truck. "Just wanted to let you know, introduce ourselves, and say we'll be going in and out of the mission for a few days."

"Appreciate it." Merritt winked at them. "Kinda makes up for the snake. Stop by sometime when you got a few minutes and we'll pop a beer or two."

"Thanks, I'd like that." Hardcastle waved a friendly hand. "Good luck with the cattle."

Merritt waved back and strode purposefully toward the garage to the side of the yard.

Hardcastle put the truck in gear and headed back out the way they'd come in. About a quarter mile back down the road, he took a right-hand turn onto an even narrower road. The sign at the turn-off read "Mission Santa Dominga, 2 miles". He glanced at McCormick, who'd been uncharacteristically silent for some time.

"You okay?" he asked gruffly.

"Huh?" Mark jerked his head up. "Oh, yeah. I'm fine."

"You still fretting about that rattler?"

McCormick shook his head. "Not really. It's just that . . . it was so . . . I dunno. _Unexpected_. So _sudden_, ya know? I mean, there it was, lying there, and I never saw it."

"Yeah, well, out here you learn pretty quick to watch your feet. And _never_put your hand where you can't see. That's one of the big rules for living in the country." Hardcastle thought for a minute, then said, "That's just the way they hunt, ya know. They bite a mouse or a ground squirrel and the venom paralyzes them so the rattler can drag it away and eat it. Nothing _evil_about 'em. It's just how they live." He looked over at the other man again. "Kinda like how we eat steers. It's just the way things are. Everything there is eats something else to survive."

Mark made a rueful face. "Yeah, I guess. Just the way of the world, huh?"

ooooo

"So what ya got there?" asked the judge as they settled into their seats. He took a menu from the waitress and nodded his thanks.

McCormick accepted his and smiled at her, then turned back to the judge. "Local paper. They put a free copy in the room." He scanned the menu quickly then said, "Hey, how'd you find this place? Just _look_at the list of steaks they have – t-bone, sirloin, New York, round, filet mignon. Fourteen ounces, eighteen ounces, _twenty-two ounces_! And they've even got prime rib!"

"No steak tartare?" murmured Hardcastle blandly.

Mark gave him a dirty look and asked again, "How'd you know about this place?"

The judge shrugged and put his menu down. "Guy at the front desk recommended it. Said it's got the best beef in town and a bar attached for folks who might want a beer or two after dinner." He paused while the waitress set water glasses in front of them, along with a basket of sliced white bread and little chunks of butter.

"You ready to order yet?" she said hopefully.

"Another coupla minutes, if that's okay," answered the judge. After she smiled and said "Sure", he turned back to McCormick. "I figure you can head back to the motel and look over the maps of the mission and --" he lowered his voice to a near-whisper, "the Merritt place while I schmooze with the guys here about what's good hunting in what seasons up here. Makes sense to you?"

McCormick looked dubious. "Hmm. I'll have to check your horoscope to see if that'll work." He opened up the six-page local paper and found the syndicated horoscope column. "Let's see. Aha!" He pointed an accusing finger at the newsprint. "It says here that you should avoid confrontations with others and practice the violin for two hours."

"_What_? Gimme that paper!"

McCormick held the paper out of the judge's reach and kept 'reading'. "Yeah, it says here to keep your distance from anyone wearing blue steer-rings--" He sneaked a peek over the top of the paper just in time to see the judge looking perplexed.

"Steer-rings, get it? Cow earrings."

Hardcastle winced, snorted, and nearly smiled.

"And to buy your associate a fabulous meal to make up for him almost getting bit by a rattlesnake," Mark finished.

"Give me that paper, wise guy."

Mark was waving to the waitress. "Miss. We'd like to order now." He glanced at the judge briefly. "I'll have the eighteen-ounce filet mignon done medium."

She wrote down the order carefully and said, "That comes with baked potato, French fries, cole slaw or the all-you-can-eat-salad buffet."

Mark wavered for a moment, then said, "Baked potato" definitively. Then he added, "But that does come with sour cream and bacon bits and stuff?"

"Oh, yes, sir. Diced green onions, shredded cheddar cheese, a little salsa and some pepitas to go on top."

"Great!" McCormick rubbed his hands together in anticipation. "Pepitas! Judge, what are you gonna have?"

Hardcastle looked up at the waitress, pen poised over the little order pad. "I'll have the prime rib, with mashed potatoes if you got 'em, French fries if you don't. I want that done medium-rare with horseradish on the side. Okay?"

"Thank you, gentlemen; would you like something to drink? Some soda or tea?"

"Oh yeah, we heard you can't serve beer in here. We have to go into another room for that, something about the licensing, I guess." Hardcastle shook his head. "Food first, then beer, right, McCormick?"

"Hoo!" said Mark, nodding his thanks to the waitress as she took the menus and departed. "_My_horoscope says 'be careful in forming a new relationship. Someone will try to mislead you and an opportunity could be missed.' There; that proves there's something to it." He tapped the paper firmly with a forefinger. "There's some kind of science involved to be able to be that specific--"

"Some kind _hooey_ involved, ya mean. You don't really believe in that gobbledygook, so why do you keep reading it? I _know_you know better." The judge pushed the paper off the table onto a chair. "'Bout the same value as reading cow pats."

"Oh, no. Is this another story about what food is made from? Like the pig intestines for sausages and the blood in a molé sauce or how many maggots are allowed by the government to be in a box of raisins?" McCormick threw up his hands. "Can't we just eat the food and hope it tastes good, just once?"

"Hey, your choice. You don't want to know where your food comes from, fine with me. I think it would give you a real understanding of a way of life in these parts and an appreciation of what the settlers here went through to make a better life for those that came later. But hey! You don't have to hear it." Hardcastle rested an elbow on the table and drew little designs in the rock hard butter with the tip of his knife.

"Oh, come on, Hardcase. Tell me whatever you wanted to," Mark held up an admonitory finger, "as long as it doesn't have innards or blood or any . . . I dunno, _disgusting_ bits in it. Okay?"

The judge leaned back and got a little more comfortable in his captain's chair. "I was just gonna tell ya that the beef they serve here comes from the ranches around here. Might even be some of Merritt's we're gonna have tonight. Out here, they raise what they can to feed themselves and the town and if there's some left over, it gets shipped down to the stock yards in L.A. to help pay for the ranch expenses."

"_It_gets shipped down, huh? Not 'they' get shipped down. Do they stop being animals once they're on the trucks or the trains or however they're sent out?" Mark looked faintly irritated. "Hey, look, who cares? We're here to just get some info and hand it over to the right guys and we can go home and worry about the damn fountain again. That thing is starting to tick me off, ya know?"

What Hardcastle knew was a change of subject when he had one tossed into his lap. "Yeah, you said that plastic stuff would do the job temporarily. What happened?"

The two men discussed fountain frailties until their steaks were brought. After that, there was a conspicuous lack of conversation other than "Lemme try a piece of that" or "Oh, man, this is _great_" or "You're not gonna finish your potatoes? Hand 'em over". After that particular remark, Judge Hardcastle rose slowly from the table, dropped a few bills on the check and muttered, "You get sick, do it outside. I'll be over in the bar." McCormick nodded to him, demolishing potatoes with undiminished enthusiasm.

ooooo

The judge trod the wooden floor slowly, making sure the people in the bar could hear him coming. Sure enough, as he opened the door, all the faces of the twenty-three people inside were turned toward him. "Evenin', everybody," he said genially, taking off his cowboy hat. There was a general murmur of welcome from the small crowd. He walked over to the bar and asked what most people seemed to like. When the answer was a well-known national lager, he ordered one for himself.

The bartender served him and asked, "You staying at the Golden Spur?"

Hardcastle took a healthy swig of his beer and sighed with contentment. "Yeah. Nice enough place. They told me this is where I'd find the best dinner in town and I don't think I've ever had better."

"Well, we pride ourselves around here on our beef. Most of what we serve is 'home-grown'." The bartender wore a plastic sheriff's badge with "Mike" in black letters. "You have steak or prime rib?"

"I had the rib; buddy of mine had a steak. They were both perfect – tender, juicy. Well-raised, well-aged, well-cooked. There's nothing better." The judge took another sip of his beer. "Hey, I wonder if we met the rancher today. Going out to the mission, we passed the Merritt place, stopped by for a minute. That his beef?"

"Can't say for sure. We do buy from him, but we buy from a coupla other places around here, too." Mike wiped down the bar industriously. "We try to give Dale as much business as we can. He's had a real run of bad luck lately."

At that moment, McCormick ambled into the bar and joined the judge. "I think I'm gonna head back to the motel and make a few notes on the mission." He shook his head at Mike when he gestured toward a glass. "Nah, I'm full. Thanks." Mark turned back to Hardcastle. "You got your key, right?"

The judge tilted back his cowboy hat with his thumb. "Yeah, yeah. I won't be too late. Maybe one more beer."

McCormick noted the signal for 'things under control, collecting information' and nodded. Just as he turned to go, he paused and swung back to the bartender. "Can I ask you something? What do _cowboys_call cowboy hats?"

Mike scratched his head briefly. "I've always heard them called 'cowboy hats'," he said sheepishly.

ooooo

About eleven, just when Mark had gotten so bored with the history textbook that he'd started thumbing through the Gideon Bible, the judge opened the door and said, "I've already booked us a table for tomorrow night, kiddo. All-You-Can-Eat Chili Night."

"Sounds good." McCormick put the Bible back in the drawer and leaned back against the headboard of the bed. "So?"

"Well," the judge hung up his hat and took off his jacket, "I found out why Dale Merritt's got money trouble."

Mark put his hands behind his head and got comfortably settled.

Hardcastle plopped into the one easy chair in the room and rested his elbows on the small table in front of him. "Seems the federal government was offering loans to farmers and ranchers some years back. _Big_loans, with real low interest rates and not a lot of qualifications necessary. They thought it was a good way to get farmers back on their feet, help out the economy in general. Makes sense, right?"

Mark nodded. "Yeah, I guess so."

"So Dale Merritt gets one of these loans and buys himself one of those huge earthmovers, kind of a combination grader and bulldozer, about twenty feet tall, real high-powered. He put in some roads on his ranch and did some grading for some of the other ranchers in the area. Then, he decided to clear some of his land up in the hills for pasture." The judge rubbed a hand over his forehead and sighed. "He caught a stump first day up there and blew a tire. You know what one of those tires costs to replace?"

At McCormick's headshake, the judge said flatly, "Four thousand dollars. The day after he replaced it, he blew another one."

Mark whistled softly.

"That was it. He couldn't afford to replace the second tire and the thing's been sitting in his barn ever since. Now he's got the loan to repay, the cattle market's dropped out of sight, he can't grow enough feed for his herd so he's got to buy hay. The guy's looking at losing his ranch in a year or two if he doesn't come up with some income from somewhere."

"So he starts a sideline in hunts." McCormick shook his head. "There's got to be something else he could've done. Sell the cattle and grow something else? Wine grapes or something?"

The judge shrugged. "Running cattle's probably all he's ever done. Folks out here try to buy as much as they can from him to help out, but it's like trying to fill a cup with a hole in the bottom."

Both men sat silently for a few moments, then McCormick asked, "So what's the plan for tomorrow? Fish and Game for you and the mission for me?"

"Yeah, but I think we'll both go check in with the local game warden first. Better if he knows us both by sight." Hardcastle leaned back in his chair and scratched his head idly. "Maybe do a little more poking around here in town, then we'll drive out to the mission and you can do your grad student impersonation while I look for tire tracks leading into one of the box canyons."

Mark yawned hugely, then looked at Hardcastle suspiciously. "Just as long as there aren't any rattlesnakes out there."

The judge grinned wickedly. "Oh, yeah. I meant to tell you about the scorpions, too."

ooooo

McCormick squinted at his notebook in concentration and underlined the word 'aqueduct'. He frowned at it, then carefully drew a tiny shovel. He considered adding a small pick, but heard boot steps behind him before reaching a decision.

"So, you seen the bake ovens yet?" Hardcastle looked around casually. Seeing no one close enough to overhear, he murmured, "Not a trace. I went close enough to touch the 'No Trespassing' signs and there's not a sign of any traffic back there at all."

Mark shook his head and said clearly, "Nope. I've been trying to do things in chronological order." Lowering his own voice, he added, "So what now, Kemo Sabe? Hide in the bushes and make water buffalo noises? You're good at that."

The judge eyed him dubiously. "You check your horoscope today? It say anything about a smart mouth leading to danger?"

Mark grinned. "Just trying to offer a constructive suggestion." Spotting a small group of tourists approaching, he tugged Hardcastle to the side. "If you check the inside, you can still see traces of the tools they used to pack the adobe," he said loudly. Lowering his voice again, he muttered, "So you gonna go to Merritt's and ask about a hunt? I still think that's a bad idea, Judge."

Hardcastle shrugged. "Never hurts to use the direct approach." He shrugged at Mark's snort of disagreement. "Look, we don't have a lot of options here if all we have is hearsay and innuendo."

The two men strolled around the bake ovens and peered up at the facade of the mission. McCormick pointed at the bell and said quietly, "Why can't you trace the payments? You said there's a lot of money involved."

The judge nodded and gestured toward the veranda leading to the dormitories. "Because it's all cash. Some guy goes into his bank and takes out eight thousand dollars in cash, the bank can't ask what he does with it. He can throw it up in the air and watch it blow away and it's none of their business."

"Eight thousand_dollars_?" McCormick waved a hand in the general direction of the live oaks behind the gift shop.

"Sure. You get an old rhino with a coupla horns and it'd be double or triple that." Hardcastle shaded his eyes with his hand as he looked at the mountains behind the mission. "Even handing over a third of that to the guy at the zoo or wherever, you're making a pretty good profit. No transportation costs 'cause you're using your own trailer. You already got the fencing, so maybe a few bucks for the sedation if you use it and a little ad in 'Big Game Hunters Monthly'. It's all got to be mighty tempting for a guy trying to save his ranch."

"Yeah." Mark smiled wryly. "I guess it's the old A Man's Gotta Do What a Man's Gotta Do attitude, huh?"

"Not a bad approach to life, in general. But not when it breaks the law." The judge sighed and glanced around. "I should be back in less than an hour, okay? You go study the architecture in the sanctuary or something."

McCormick looked at him questioningly. "You sure you don't want me to go with you?"

The judge shook his head. "You're supposed to be a student, remember? _I'm_the old country hunting buff, looking for something a little more exciting than a big-horned sheep. You just keep an eye out for a goose-neck or a cattle truck heading down one of those canyons."

"Yeah, okay. You be careful though. Remember, this guy's got rattlers guarding his gate."

ooooo

Eight minutes after Hardcastle drove away from the mission, McCormick looked up to see a white van creeping down the same dirt road. As he watched, it cautiously turned off onto a narrow jeep trail obscured by brush, that led, corkscrew-fashion, into the scrub-covered hills.

_Dammit.__ Now__ what do I do? _Mark shoved his notebook into his jeans pocket, heaved a sigh, and strode briskly after the slow-moving van.

The van bumped and rocked over the wash-boarding of the road and threw up a dust trail which provided cover for McCormick as he followed. As the trail climbed into the hills, the van gained a little speed, but he could still keep pace at a quick trot. At each bend in the road, McCormick hung back until he was sure the van was far enough ahead that he couldn't be seen.

After the sixth switch-back, he lost count and realized following the van might have been a mistake. _They've gotta stop __sometime__. I just hope it's __soon_

Suddenly, he realized that the engine of the van could no longer be heard over his panting. He immediately crouched behind the mesquite lining the jeep trail and listened intently. Muted voices were coming from around the next bend in the road.

Mark crept as quietly as he could up to the bend and peered around. There was a large clearing in the brush, with a small corral in the middle. Two men had exited the truck and he recognized one of them as Dale Merritt. They had opened the cargo doors of the van and were extending a ramp, which gave him an opportunity of moving closer.

"Come on, Titan," said Merritt. "Here you go, boy."

Mark examined the corral and realized it was a wire fence camouflaged with brush around it. A gate in the side was standing open and this was obviously the last stop for whatever animal the men had brought.

As the men puffed and swore, a large cage appeared at the top of the ramp and was slowly lowered by rope to the ground. Inside was an enormous tawny mass, with a shaggy golden mane.

ooooo

Judge Hardcastle parked in front of the Merritt gate and climbed out of the truck. "Hello!" he called. He scrutinized the ground past the gate just in case, then leaned over it and called again. "Anybody home?"

When there was no answer again, he wandered casually over to the garage to check for vehicles. Seeing the padlock hanging open and the door ajar reminded him of a remark McCormick had once made. "It's not breaking, just entering." With a wry smile at the memory, he stuck his head through the opening and cast a quick glance around. Cages of all sizes were arranged around the entire building. Some were large enough for a water buffalo; some were as small as hamster cages. A few ropes, chains and leashes hung from the walls and various bottles and jars stood on a shelf near the door. _Probably the sedatives. _He withdrew his head and turned back to the truck. _Wish I knew where he is right now. Well, it's nearly five o'clock. We'll head back into town, have some chili . . . maybe have better luck tomorrow._

Arriving back at the mission, Hardcastle checked the area outside where he'd left McCormick busily scribbling in his little notebook. Having no luck there, he checked the inside of the church, then asked the volunteer at the information booth if anyone had left a message for him. Receiving the negative answer he expected, the judge pursed his lips and squinted thoughtfully at the ground. He sighed once, then headed for the truck to check the canyon roads for tracks.

ooooo

Titan's cage was pushed to the gate in the wire fence, cage door facing into the enclosure. The man accompanying Merritt leaned over and opened the latch on the cage from behind. "Go on, boy. Look, there's food for you," he urged.

From behind a tiny storage shed, McCormick strained uselessly to see around the van blocking his view of the corral. He heard the cage door slammed shut and the fence gate closed and locked. The men shoved the cage back to the van, wrestled it up the ramp into the back and then climbed into the front. As the van headed back the way it had come, Mark crept over to the side of the fenced area. He removed some of the brush fastened to the wire strands and peeked in. Titan was lying in the middle of the small space, next to a post with a chain hanging from it. A bowl of water and one of food had been placed where he could easily reach them.

"Hey, Titan," he called softly. "Don't be afraid; it's just me." Mark immediately realized how ridiculous that sounded, closed his eyes and shook his head. Carefully, he edged through the wire strands and tried to sound a little more sensible. "I'll get that chain off you then you can get out of here, okay? Just take it easy. I'm here to help."

He noticed that the meat in the food bowl looked like raw hamburger and a white powder had been sprinkled over it. "Hey, don't eat that stuff." Mark looked skyward. "What am I doing, talking to a lion?"

Titan yawned enormously and McCormick winced at the waft of warm breath. "Man, don't you ever floss?" He then realized that the stench was possibly a result of the lion's illness or aged state. "Sorry. Look, I'm not exactly comfortable here, you know? I've never broken a lion out of jail, so you just lie there and relax and I'll just come up behind you and get that lock open and --"

Mark heard a click and a buzzing snap and immediately realized two things. First, that the fence had just been electrified and there was now no way out. Second, the chain on the post had never been fastened around the lion's neck.

ooooo

"I_know_we don't have a warrant." Hardcastle had both fists gripped around his patience, but his hold was starting to slip. "And I _know_ I can't file a missing person report yet. I'm a _judge_, remember?" He took a deep breath and looked at Sheriff Easton with a steely glare. "All I'm asking for is a little help. Maybe a coupla deputies to drive up a few roads and help me find my friend. Okay? You know damn well what's going on out there and McElroy from Fish and Game told you we were coming up here. So how about a little cooperation on your part, huh?"

The lanky, gray-haired sheriff looked straight back at him and quirked a small smile. "Okay." He smiled a bit more at the judge's irritated expression. "It's just that I'm the only one around right now and I'm on duty. One of my deputies is giving someone a ride up to the hospital in San Alberto and the other's taking a report of loose cattle on the county road. If you can wait for twenty minutes, I'll be off and go out there with you."

"Yeah, all right. Appreciate it," grumbled Hardcastle. He paced six steps to the line of chairs at the front of the office, decided he didn't feel like sitting, and strode back. "Twenty minutes, huh?"

"You're pretty antsy about this guy. You afraid he's found something out and he's in trouble?" Easton shook his head emphatically. "Dale Merritt's not that kind of guy. If your friend's got the goods on him, that's that. Dale would just turn himself in, not hurt anybody standing in his way. I know him. He's good people." The sheriff shook his head again, more gently this time. "Just took the wrong way out of his problems is all."

The judge waved a hand dismissively. "I figured that from everything I heard about the guy." He perched on the edge of the desk momentarily, then stood again. "Nah. It's just that it's getting dark and the temperature'll be dropping and the snakes'll be coming out. This friend of mine's kind of a city slicker, see? And he's got a real thing about snakes." Hardcastle thought for a second, the added, "Might be because he's half-Irish."

"Well, if he _has_ run into Dale, he'll be fine." Sheriff Easton rummaged through the bottom drawer of his desk. "If he hasn't, we'll find him." He pulled out a thermos bottle and set it on the desktop. "I still feel bad about the Merritts. Seems like there should've been more we could do to help out, besides buying their beef. But you know country folk; they don't like being offered charity."

Hardcastle nodded in agreement. "Yeah, I know you're not looking forward to nailing him for the hunts." He rubbed briefly at his forehead. "You've heard people talk about the law being unfair, right?"

The sheriff nodded wryly. "At times I agree with them."

"Nope." The judge stared at the wall behind the sheriff's desk. "It's not the law that's unfair. It's life." He looked back at Easton. "People like us, people in the service of the law, sometimes we get put in a situation where we have to _seem_ unfair . . . where the people on the other end seem to get a tough break or an unjust result. But it's choices they made – maybe years before – or the circumstances they find themselves in that's the unfair part. The law's the law and it's as fair as anybody can make it."

Easton sighed and nodded reluctantly. "That's probably so. But I'm still sorry for Dale Merritt."

"Sorry enough to let him keep breaking the law just because he got caught in a bad spot?" Hardcastle put his hands in his pockets, lowered his chin and looked straight at Easton. "Sorry to have to be the one to tell him he's under arrest?"

"Yep." The sheriff picked up the thermos and examined it closely. "But you notice I'm not working in a bank. I'm still a sheriff." He handed the thermos to the judge. "Here. The diner down the street. Betty knows how I like my coffee. By the time you're back, it'll be time to go."

ooooo

"Um, so . . . come here often? What's your sign?" said Mark nervously. "Heh, heh, bet it's Leo." He edged as close to the fence as he could get without touching it. Titan flicked an ear at him carelessly, then uttered a coughing grunt and closed his eyes.

McCormick slowly straightened up from his defensive crouch and looked more closely at the lion. He noticed the dirty, matted fur and the drooping head. Titan was gaunt almost to the point of emaciation and seemed too tired to do more than hold his head off the ground.

"Hey, look. How about if I just sit down and wait for somebody to figure out where we are? Does that work for you?" Mark cocked his head and waited for a response of some sort.

Titan flicked his ear again, but the eyes stayed closed.

"Hmm. You're not gonna eat that food, are you? Should I maybe throw it outside the fence? It's just gonna attract flies if we leave it there." He slowly extended a hand toward the bowl and hooked it with his fingers. Gingerly, he dragged the bowl closer until he could pick it up and toss it outside the corral. The lion didn't even twitch at the noise it made when it landed.

Mark eyed him curiously. "You should probably drink some of that water, though. Doesn't look like they put anything in that." He moved a little closer to Titan. "You're pretty used to being around people, aren't you? Used to having people talk to you and take care of you." He grimaced in disgust. "Yeah, just look what people have done to you. Poor guy."

Titan sighed and lowered his head to the ground. His tail swished once feebly.

"Well, I guess we may as well relax and get comfortable. Do you like having somebody talk to you?" McCormick eased himself to the ground, realizing he was within reach of a pounce, but strangely unworried. "Hardcastle says I can talk enough for three people. Do you want me to talk to you while we wait?"

Another coughing grunt was the only reply.

"Fair enough. Let me tell you what we're doing out here and how it's all gonna turn out okay."

ooooo

"This is Salt Rock Canyon. Had a big brush fire back here about four years ago."

The judge grunted and kept the spotlight on the side of the road.

"If they're not back here, we'll try Creosote Canyon next." Sheriff Easton glanced at the judge. "We'll find 'em. Might take a bit, but there's only so many places they can be."

"Sooner the better." Hardcastle leaned a little further out the truck window. "We're missing All-You-Can-Eat Chili Night."

Easton grinned at the back of the judge's head knowingly and kept driving.

ooooo

"So then I got thinking about something the judge said about hunting." McCormick was leaning against the post in the center of the corral now, with Titan stretched out next to him. Mark checked his watch, saw nine thirty-five, and kept talking. "He said they never hunted for fun, just for food . . . because they couldn't afford to _buy_food, I guess. And the same thing for fishing. We go fishing up at the lake a few times a year, but we never catch more than we can eat. I remember we were up there about a year ago and Hardcastle told me that when Indians killed a deer or caught a fish – he's part Cherokee, you know – they'd praise its spirit for being strong and fast and thank it for giving them its body for food." He paused to check on Titan. The lion twitched his head slightly as if to ask him to continue.

"Bet you like fish, don't you? Most cats do. Anyway, I guess what I'm saying is people don't really understand or _think_a whole lot about what they eat now because they only see it in plastic packages at the store. If they had to kill their own chickens or slaughter a pig for bacon, you think it would it be any different?"

A deep sigh was Titan's answer.

"Yeah. We were talking about that on the way into town, you know. How everything kills something else just to live. See, there was this rattlesnake – " McCormick stopped suddenly. "I don't really want to talk about that right now, okay? Anyway, all I'm saying is that it doesn't hurt to just think about stuff like that once in while. Just remember that the hamburger on the grill was a steer once and . . . I dunno . . . get a little perspective on things. Maybe it would help keep us all a little more human."

Titan whuffed gently.

"Oh, sorry. Present company excepted."

ooooo

Hardcastle looked at the clock on the dashboard, then checked his own watch. "Nearly eleven."

"Just a few more canyons to check, then we can take a look around the old school and the cemetery." Easton braked suddenly to avoid the jackrabbit that darted in front of the truck.

"You know he'll be in the last place we look," muttered the judge. "I_know_he does that on purpose."

The sheriff suppressed his smile and drove on.

ooooo

Mark yawned and stretched carefully so as not to dislodge the lion paw resting against his knee. "You hanging in there, Titan? You don't sound too good."

The lion's breathing had become stertorous. Mark couldn't see clearly in the starlight, but he hadn't seen any ear flicks or paw twitches for quite a while.

Reaching out a careful hand, he touched the furry side and could feel a heart laboring to keep beating.

"Keep going, Titan. We got help on the way and then we can get you to a vet or something, okay? Just keep trying."

The raspy breathing faltered, picked up again, then ceased abruptly. McCormick kept his palm on the bony side and bit his lip as he felt the heart beat once, once more and then stop. "Oh, Titan," he murmured.

ooooo

Sheriff Easton gestured with his left hand. "Look up ahead. Turn the light up there."

"Where?" Hardcastle shone the light directly ahead and then saw a brushy fence.

Easton brought the truck to a stop and reached for the flashlight on the dashboard.

The judge beat him out of the truck and to the fence. "McCormick? Hey, McCormick, you in there?" he shouted.

Mark rose from his sitting position. "Yeah, I'm here. Judge, he died."

Hardcastle gaped at him, then noticed the recumbent form at his feet.

"Just a few minutes ago. He stopped breathing and I felt his heart stop." McCormick came over to the fence and looked blankly at the two men on the outside.

The sheriff shone his flashlight on the gate and held up a hand. "I can get that open. Just hold on a minute." He went back to the truck, taking the flashlight with him.

In the light from the spotlight, the judge could see McCormick turn back to the lion's body.

"We can't just leave him here, Judge. He deserves better than that."

Hardcastle pushed back the remark that the body would be good evidence and said instead, "We can probably get him into the back of the truck." He tried to get a better look through the fence, and asked, "You okay?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm okay." Mark turned back to face him again. "And Titan's okay, too, now."

ooooo

The next morning, with Titan's body in cold storage at the local butcher shop, the judge and McCormick followed the sheriff's car out to the Merritt Ranch.

Both vehicles parked in the area right in front of the gate and, as they climbed out onto the gravel, Dale Merritt came out of the house.

"Reckon I know why you're here." He pushed back his cowboy hat with a thumb. "You could've saved me a trip up that coulee this morning."

Easton shook his head sadly. "Wanted you to get a good night's sleep, Dale. Your wife know you're coming with us?"

Merritt smiled without humor. "Yeah, we said our goodbyes. She's gonna try to set up some bail for me." He turned to the judge. "So. You feeling proud of yourself? You nailed a guy just doing what he could to save his ranch for his kids. Real good feeling that must give you."

"Mr. Merritt," said the judge slowly, "it doesn't matter to me what you think about me. But I want to ask you something. You hunt. You probably taught your kids to hunt. When you shoot a deer and it gets away, you go after it, right?"

Merritt nodded stonily.

"Because you don't want it to suffer, you find it and kill it, no matter how long it takes." Hardcastle hooked his thumbs on his belt and lifted his chin. "You ever give one damned thought to the suffering of those animals you haul out here so they can be slaughtered by people too cowardly to face them in a _real_hunt? You ever think about the ones that take five or six shots chained to a post? You ever consider for one minute the suffering you cause those animals boxed up in a truck for eight hours, tossed into a pen and left 'til it's convenient for some rich yahoo to come out and kill them?"

"What I think about those animals is none of your concern," Merritt retorted angrily. "You had no right to go sticking your nose into any of this! You come up here and start poking your nose in my business and I end up losing my ranch and going to jail and I'm supposed to feel sorry for some sick, old zoo animal that's going to die anyway? Who the hell do you think you are?"

The judge pointed an accusing finger at Merritt and said coldly, "What you did was _against the law_ and it was _stupid_. When you stepped outside the law, I stopped feeling sorry for you. What kind of example did you set for those kids of yours? Did you think before you made your wife an accessory? And what about those city-slickers with their high-powered rifles and fancy safari outfits? You made them think they can buy anything! There's always gonna be someone who can give them whatever they want, if only they offer enough money for it! You wanna talk about feeling proud, how do you feel when you clean up the mess they left after their 'hunt'?"

"I did what I had to!" shouted Merritt. He clenched his fists and his weather-beaten face turned red. "My grandfather left this ranch to his sons and I have a responsibility to leave it to mine! You _dare_ to stand there and get righteous with me! You have no_ idea_ what we've been through, everything I've tried – I did whatever I could to save my ranch!"

Hardcastle shouted right back at him. "Did you get a job baling for other farmers? Did you apply for welfare or food stamps? How about getting work as a wrangler on one of the other ranches? No, you didn't, because you had an easier way out! You wouldn't take a job anywhere else and you wouldn't take help from your friends because you had easy money staring you in the face! You had people all over this town wanting to help you out, but you were too proud to take what was offered! There's your _pride_. Lord knows you had plenty of it. How proud do you feel right now?"

Merritt sagged suddenly and looked at the sheriff. "Let's just get this over with," he said plaintively. "Please?"

The judge turned away from him abruptly and wiped a hand across his face. He waved a hand at McCormick and stumped back to the truck.

Mark paused for just a moment. "The lion last night," he said to Merritt quietly, "Titan. I don't think he suffered at all. I sat with him and he just went to sleep." He studied the ground intently. "I thought you might want to know that."

"That's good to hear. Thank you." Merritt nodded and went toward the sheriff's car.

ooooo

McCormick had been unusually quiet the entire trip back. Now, as they merged onto the PCH, the judge threw a glance at him and asked, "Watcha thinking about?"

Mark shrugged. "Stuff. About Merritt and Titan and how sad it all is."

"Yeah, that's one word for it. But that's life, kiddo. Ups and downs, good times and bad. Joy and sorrow. Not much consolation at times." Hardcastle checked his rearview mirror and moved into the left-most lane. "Merritt'll be out in a year and a bit, and the sale of his ranch oughta give his family enough to make a start somewhere. Some hard work and help from his friends and they'll make out all right."

"I guess. But what about all the other people and all the other animals? There are other Titans out there and nobody cares."

"_We_care. And there's other people who care. All we can do is the best we can; we can't do it alone." The judge checked his mirror again after passing a moving van, then slowly moved back into the right-hand lane. "What you have to try to remember is that you were there when Titan needed you."

Mark nodded slowly. "Yeah, I think so. He wasn't alone, and he just kinda went to sleep. That's really not so bad when you're old and tired and sick. Just to go to sleep with a friend there with you."

"All you could hope for, really." The judge decided to go ahead and make the sacrifice to cheer up his passenger. "Hey, you didn't check our horoscopes yesterday. Paper's right there on the dashboard."

McCormick smiled at him and quickly turned to the page with the gossip column, the crossword and the horoscopes. "Here's mine. 'An unusual situation results in an immediate friendship. Offer comfort and strength to another.'" The smile turned a trifle wistful. "This stuff is just total fiction, you know."

"Maybe," responded Hardcastle judiciously. "Read mine."

"'A person close to you is starving. He needs pizza and a raise in his allowance.'" Mark kept his eyes firmly riveted on the paper.

"Hah!" said the judge, "Total fiction is right!"

-----------------------------------------------------------------

Unfortunately, the idea for this story came from a real situation. Canned hunts are still legal in several states for several different types of animal. The Humane Society has an excellent page that I encourage you to visit for more information on how to put an end to canned hunts in your state.


End file.
